


Finity

by Rubynye



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of a sequence. Perhaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finity

Title: Finity  
Fandom: NUMB3RS  
Rating: R with warnings.  
Pairing: Don Eppes/Charlie Eppes ; several other relationships discussed.  
Summary: The end of a sequence. Perhaps.  
Spoilers: Set after 4.08 _Tabu_ and 4:14 _Checkmate_ respectively; mild spoilers for both.  
Warnings: Incest. Het mentioned.  
Beta Reader: [](http://lomedet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lomedet.livejournal.com/)**lomedet**. *waves gratefully*  
Disclaimer: None of these characters or their settings belong to me.

It's not in what Don says but in what he doesn't say, Charlie reflects as he parks his bike behind Don's car. That's the most useful approach to the available data, since Don hasn't said much recently: monosyllables to his team, grunts and nods to Charlie. A pattern composed of absences, the clarity of zeroes, and Charlie was guiltily relieved when their Dad ordered him to 'go check on your brother, see if you can get him to come over for dinner. Make sure he knows we've got beer.'

Charlie agreed carefully, counting out heartbeats in his head, this many before he nodded, this many for a smile, and as he leans against the elevator wall he remembers his father's satisfied nod and feels guilty all over again. He actually has no intention of getting Don back to their house tonight, even if Dad is roasting a chicken.

That guilt isn't new, though, it's dully familiar, and Charlie shrugs as the doors open. It's a little more novel to feel guilty towards Liz Warner, and ironic now when, technically, he doesn't have to anymore. Besides, Charlie thinks, trailing his hand along the hallway wall, it's not stopping him either way.

When Charlie lets himself in the kitchen light is on, the living room dark, and he wonders momentarily if Don is even home. He pauses, toeing off his sneakers, turning his face away from the light so his eyes can adjust, and sees a faint tilting glint, hears a soft slosh. Charlie holds his breath, waiting out the silence, until he hears a softer sigh; Don shifts and his silhouette appears, head bowed, arm slung along the back of the couch, a cylindrical outline in his hand.

Don doesn't say anything, but Charlie doesn't really expect him to. He navigates by Don's breathing, steady in the darkness, as he tries to remember the living room's layout, walking with a hand outstretched. A few steps in he smells the yeasty tang of beer and relaxes a little; it could be worse, it could be whiskey. Don probably isn't too acutely drunk.

Considering probabilities, Charlie steps forward and bangs his ankle on something low and unyielding. "Uh--" His foot catches, his ankle hyperflexed and twinging, and he tips sideways, arms windmilling in empty air as he lurches into the bookcase. "Ow!" Shelves press hard dents into his arm, Don snickers infuriatingly, and Charlie grumble as he steadies himself. "Ow, dammit."

"You could turn on the light already." There's a smile in Don's voice, and Charlie's okay with exchanging a little dignity for that.

"I didn't want to disturb this whole thing you've got going." The points of impact throb faintly as Charlie finally makes it over to the couch.

Don tilts his head up for a moment, but there's no glint of teeth in his smile before he droops again. "My thing?" Don asks without real curiosity, his voice flattening.

Charlie runs his hand along the couch as he navigates towards the light switch, trying to move nonchalantly with a knot in his stomach. He doesn't sigh with obvious relief when Don doesn't move away, instead trailing his hand over the familiar hard curves of muscle and briefly fiddling with the sleeve cuffed at Don's elbow. "Yeah." Charlie squeezes Don's shoulder for an extra couple of heartbeats as he stretches to reach the wall. "This drinking in the dark thing."

The light briefly sears Charlie's eyes, receding to show Don slumped on the couch, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, bare foot up on the coffee table. Charlie doesn't see any other bottles as he comes around the couch, and Don catches him looking and puffs a near-silent laugh. "Hid the evidence," he mutters, raising the bottle to his mouth.

Charlie can't quite come up with a joke about behavior patterns and residual data, or, really, anything else. He edges around the coffee table and settles for saying, "Don," as neutrally as he can.

Don doesn't lift his head, but he does look up as Charlie settles on the couch inside arm's reach. "What's up, Chuck?" he asks, voice perfectly older-brother obnoxious.

Charlie doesn't roll his eyes. "Dad sent me to check on you." Don nods, mouth quirking. "He said to tell you there's beer at the house, but it looks like you've got enough here." Smirk widening, Don salutes him with the bottle. "Though if you want to go over I can--"

"Oh, God, no." Don laughs exactly when Charlie expects him to, loud and a little wild. "No, you're not driving." He pulls in his leg, and Charlie's distracted by the sweeping motion, the shift of muscle under denim; when he glances up again Don is reaching for him.

"I could," Charlie protests for form's sake, as Don ruffles his hair, grinning brightly, eyes narrowed and shining. It's at least half because of the beer, but he still looks better than Charlie had worried he might. "It's not like--"

"No, Charlie." Don shakes his head a little loosely. "Not my car, you're not." His hand warm and heavy on Charlie's head, he finishes the bottle and sets it down without looking, raising his freed hand to Charlie's shoulder. "Why don't we just stay here?" Don's fingers slowly pushing into his hair, Charlie curls his hand around Don's other wrist; under Charlie's thumb Don's pulse accelerates in synch with his own as inevitably as gravity. "With my quiet beer thing."

"You forgot 'the in the dark' part," Charlie's voice is shifting, high and breathless, because Don's hand is damply warm on the side of his neck, Don's thumb brushes his lower lip, Don is leaning forward and his eyes are dark and intent. "We could turn--"

"Can't see you in the dark." Don closes his fist in Charlie's hair more tightly than he ever would sober, and Charlie's mouth sags open as his head tips back into the sweet burn. "Come here," Don growls, low and hot, fingers spread over Charlie's cheek, and Charlie smiles under his hand, kissing the base of his thumb and kneeling up.

This is just distraction, Charlie knows. Don probably won't be any more talkative in the morning, without the beer and with a hangover added. Even so, it's magnitudes better than letting him brood alone. Charlie goes pliant in Don's hands, lets Don pull him in and kiss him roughly, and under the residual beer Don tastes more than good enough to distract Charlie in turn from the calculations whirring inside his own head.

Don's shoulders are solid under Charlie's hands, the forceful kiss rocks him back, but when Charlie moans Don shakes, tremors like an earthquake through both of them. He shoves his other hand into Charlie's hair, sucking Charlie's lower lip as he pulls away, smearing his mouth across Charlie's cheek. Charlie's already lightheaded, the weight of Don's hands a welcome anchor, his nerves crackling with the burn in his scalp, the hard press of Don's teeth between the softness of his lips. Don's unrestrained strength bearing down on him, when Charlie groans he feels Don feel him in the tremble of his hands and the quiver of his mouth on Charlie's throat.

Don is almost feverishly hot, radiating through the thin cotton shirt, forearms framing Charlie's face, and every inch of Charlie's skin prickles against his clothes, wanting to be naked and pressed to Don's. Don mouths downwards across his pulse, breathing a low wordless sound that tingles his wet skin, and Charlie has to let go and throw a hand back to brace himself against Don's push and his own melt. He can't keep his eyes open, and it would feel so good to just let Don flatten him to the couch, but they could have more, could be naked, could lie down properly. "Hey," Charlie gasps, "hey, don't you have a bed?"

At first Don doesn't even seem to hear him, sucking and kissing beneath his ear. The incipient bruise throbs with his pulse, and wanting more clashes with the worry he'll have a mark to explain. "Don." Charlie pushes on Don's shoulder, and Don just leans harder into him, Charlie's arm straining beneath them. "Don, Don." Charlie tries to say 'stop' but Don's tongue swipes across the sensitized spot and the word disintegrates into a hiss between his clenched teeth.

Don pulls off with an audible wet smack, presses a ticklish kiss to Charlie's chin, and swallows Charlie's laugh in another hard kiss. Charlie's head is spinning as if alcohol is soaking out of Don into him, and there's a dizzy moment where he doesn't remember why he isn't clinging to Don with both hands, why he isn't pulling Don down with him.

But Don cups Charlie's head, grabs his arm and hauls him up as he lurches to his feet. The kiss breaks as they stumble against the coffee table, Don because he actually isn't that steady and Charlie because Don pulls him too far forward. Clutching Don's shoulders, Charlie stares up at Don staring down at him, his eyes narrowed and bottomless, his breath harsh between parted lips, all the tipsy cheer completely gone from his face.

"Um, bed?" Charlie asks, and it comes out wobbly, but Don's face firms into something like a smile.

"Yeah, come on," Don says, his hand sliding to the nape of Charlie's neck as he turns them towards his bedroom.

* * * *** * * *

On his way back from the bathroom, Charlie detours to turn off the kitchen and living room lights. Walking naked through Don's place feels right and wrong at once, something that shouldn't exist and does, or doesn't except that it's been defined to. _i_, Charlie thinks, reminding himself of a joke he made to himself once, and grins as he steps back into the bedroom.

Don is lying on his side, head propped on one hand and the other resting on his hip, the sheet loosely draped over his waist. Charlie stops in the doorway to look at Don looking at him; the single light of the bedside lamp casts Don in high relief, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders, the strong lines of his body, his unfairly long legs. Always taller, always stronger, always gorgeous, and Charlie smiles as he steps forward, watching the even cycle of Don's breathing and the minute shifts of his face as his eyes track Charlie across the room. When he's within arm's reach beside the bed Don murmurs, "What're you staring at?"

His grin so wide he can feel the stretch in his cheeks, Charlie stands his ground. "You started it, staring at me first."

"Whatever, buddy." Don reaches out, curling his hand around Charlie's side just above his hip, and Charlie steadies himself on Don's shoulder. "You're the instigator here, not me." Charlie could answer that, really, it's his choice to forego a reply; he sucks in a breath as Don leans forward, watches breathlessly as Don strokes his thumb upwards and kisses the spot just beneath. Don looks up with dark warm eyes and Charlie leans down eagerly, but Don stops him with a hand on his chest. "Wait a minute," he says, pushing Charlie back a little towards the lamp.

"Huh." Charlie glances at his arms, reaching up to his neck. He doesn't see any marks, and nowhere on his neck feels particularly tender anymore. "Do I have any hickeys?"

"Mm, no." Don sets his hands lightly on Charlie's waist and turns him, and Charlie glances back over his shoulder. "No, I don't see anything. I just--" Don sits up as he turns Charlie to face him again, sliding his arms around Charlie and pulling him in. "Just wanted to check."

"Oh, well -- aagh." Don pulls hard, and Charlie more or less falls onto him. "Hey!" Don smiles and hauls him over, lamplight twinkling in his eyes and the sheet tangling between their legs. "Hey, what's with the manhandling?"

It's a deliberately terrible pun, but Don frowns, forehead creasing, gently rolling Charlie off him onto the bed. "Too rough? I'm sorr--"

"No, no, no it wasn't." Charlie waves his hands emphatically, but Don sits up, not really looking at Charlie or anything else. Charlie pushes himself up and Don drapes his arm around his shoulders but is otherwise still and quiet. He's probably burned through most of the alcohol by now, and Charlie wonders what's seeping in to replace the buzz.

"I should call Dad," Charlie says, because nothing else comes to mind. "Let him know I'm not coming home, because _you_ got drunk." He gently pokes Don's thigh.

Don grins obligingly, still looking down. "Yeah, yeah, blame it all on me."

The bitter note in Don's voice sparks a thought; connections crackling in the back of his head, Charlie takes a breath and says, "I talked to Liz today." Don nods minutely. "So, no more double dates, I guess."

"Something like that." Don gives Charlie a squeeze, like he does when Charlie's math cracks a case, but his face is still closed, his gaze on something far away.

Sometimes, Don is incredibly frustrating. This wasn't something Charlie should've had to figure out. "Admittedly, this is a lot less dramatic than when I found out you'd been engaged to Agent Hall, but--"

_That_ gets a reaction. Don yanks his arm away, turning to glare. "What, Charlie, are you going to bring up all my ex-girlfriends now?"

"I don't think I can. Do I even know about all--" Suddenly Don's scowl and the lines between his eyebrows flash into deeper chiaroscuro, and Charlie can see the whole problem, the faces of everyone involved linked by lines and vectors in his mind's eye. He knows what's wrong, he knows how to fix it. A knot of dismay plummets into his gut as he realizes what he's about to say, but it's all there, clear as any math.

When Charlie looks up Don is wearily leaning his forehead on his fist, elbow propped on his knee. "Withholding data," Charlie murmurs, and that's not where he meant to start.

"Charlie," Don sighs, glancing at his wrist for the watch that isn't there, and Charlie could almost smile if his chest hadn't started aching. "I really don't want to talk about this."

"Then listen," Charlie says, because he has to. Don shakes his head and lies down, facing away, but lets Charlie drape himself across his back. Charlie squeezes Don's bicep gratefully, needing his solidity. "Don, this is... this is because of me."

"Come on, Charlie, she doesn't know--"

"Exactly. You didn't tell her about Leah Wexford either, did you?" Charlie feels Don wince and bites his own lip in sympathy. "You didn't even tell Kim you have a brother. Robin left you over a lack of information too, didn't she?" Don snorts, his shoulder rock-hard under Charlie's hand. "There's a regular progression here, a common factor."

"Robin did _not_ break up with me because of you," Don says, fist tight on the pillow. "You're not _that_ special, buddy."

"I would rather not be." Don sighs longsufferingly, obviously composing a manifesto in his head about just how spoiled his little brother is, but Charlie means it. "You don't tell your girlfriends what they need to know because you're used to hiding something important from them. About me, about us."

Don looks back over his shoulder, eyebrows up and eyes wide, then rolls so he lies flat and Charlie slides down over his chest. His hands are in fists when he raises them, his mouth a tight line, and Charlie's pulse spikes as he reminds himself that Don hasn't hit him in over fifteen years. But Don is moving slowly, his mouth softening as he stares at Charlie; his fists uncurl, flattening and curving to Charlie's face. "Charlie, what?"

"Don." Charlie's voice shakes. What he's saying will mean he won't feel Don's hands on him like this again. "Don, as long as you have to keep this from someone you're involved with -- as long as there's a secret you have to keep -- it's going to be the same result over and over. Because of me."

"Charlie." Don's eyes squeeze shut, his fingers tighten on Charlie's face, and Charlie spreads his hand over Don's heart, feeling its beat one more time. "Charlie, isn't this usually my line?" Charlie tries to laugh but chokes on it, he can't look at Don trying to smile with lines of pain etching his face. He drops his head to Don's shoulder, the lamplight red through his eyelids, and Don slides one hand between his shoulderblades, the other into his hair.

"Yeah," Charlie admits. Each time they've stopped before Don was the one putting on the brakes, saying they shouldn't be doing this, that their parents would die if they knew, that it's illegal and wrong. Charlie's never really cared what the law said or society might insist, and their mom died anyway.The universe is written in math, it exists regardless of what people think, and Don always felt right as any solution no matter what he said, felt right with Charlie whenever they came back together.

But this pattern exists too, with only one real solution. Charlie thought they'd be fine as long as this stayed a secret, and they've kept it, but just by its existence it's destroying Don's relationships with women, even though they don't know it's there. It's like a black hole, invisible but revealing its presence through its effects on everything around it. Feeling Don breathing beneath him, Charlie hopes stopping is enough to return Don's life to a normal configuration, because all the outcomes for having to admit to this are pretty much just variations on disaster. Before he has too much of a chance to contemplate that, Don breaks into his thoughts by muttering, "I should've tried saying it with math," his lips just brushing Charlie's forehead.

Charlie squirms a little further onto Don, draping a leg across his waist. "Did you want to?"

Don breathes over Charlie's skin, once, twice, three times. "No," he admits, his voice a thready whisper.

"I don't want to. I really don't want to. But..." True things are true, regardless of what people want, and Charlie's mental model has shifted with tonight's realization; further implications unfold in his thoughts, a cold surge in his blood as he realizes he's not sure that tomorrow he'll be able to look Amita in the eye. "Amita," Charlie murmurs, hating himself when Don shudders all down his body. "I can talk to her about math, about anything and everything, but one day we're going to hit this trajectory, and I don't want--"

"You'd rather learn from your big brother's bad example?" Don's voice is dry and rough.

Charlie wants to lift his head and apologize with kisses, wants anything other than to have this talk one more time. "I didn't mean it like that," is as good as a 'yes'. "But I..." He trails off, out of words.

Don sighs, breath ruffling Charlie's hair, pushes his hand down Charlie's back in a firm stroke and tugs him up a little. "In the morning," Don says, holding Charlie's gaze with his.

"We'll have some coffee and leave for our respective workplaces." Charlie says as steadily, as normally as he can.

Don's cheek creases with a brief half-smile, there and gone. "In the morning this is over."

Charlie nods. But he also presses himself to Don's warm, sturdy body. "It's not morning yet." Charlie's throat is tight with hope, and Don stares him down for only a couple of seconds before cracking, looking away and shaking his head as he smiles.

"It's not." Don closes his eyes and kisses Charlie, gently rolling Charlie onto his back, leaning on him just enough that Charlie can feel that he's getting hard. Charlie sighs and opens to Don, pressing up as he kicks the sheet down, and Don kisses him softly, so sweetly, more than enough to unwind the knot in Charlie's belly, almost enough to soothe away the ache in his chest.

* * * *** * * *

On the coffee table in front of Charlie are advance copies of this year's editions of five fluid mechanics textbooks, a spiral-bound notebook, several colors of pens, and the remnants of a brisket sandwich. In his hands, however, is a copy of _The Attraction Equation_, currently closed and upside down, which he contemplates as he grapples with the unfamiliar feeling that he might be wrong.

Charlie had counted Robin among the data when he recognized the effect he was having on Don's relationships, so he was rather, if pleasantly, surprised when she and Don worked things out. When Don had told him and Dad about that breakup, Charlie had said maybe she might come back, partially because he didn't think it was impossible, but mostly to get Don to look a little less grim. It hadn't seemed probable, either, there was nothing in the pattern to suggest it, not even Terry.

On the other hand, there was nothing to suggest against it either -- Don's relationship with Kim Hall had apparently been successful for years, as long as he was away from Charlie -- and now Don is smiling again, actually talking in sentences again. Whole paragraphs on occasion. Maybe it's futile to attempt to determine what Robin's return says about the validity of Charlie's hypothesis; he flips the book over to stare at his author's photo, wondering if he ever looks that sure of himself in person.

The front door opens, and Don calls out, "Charlie!", cheerful and kind of loud. Charlie jumps a little and glances up; if he was expecting anyone it was their Dad, and not for another couple of hours. He could almost be worried, but Don shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it on a peg with a muscular flourish, his movements not uncontrolled but looser, easier. He certainly looks good, really good, his tennis shirt unbuttoned, a smudge of lipstick on his cheek and his eyes crinkled and smiling. "Who's home?"

"Just me." Charlie leans over the back of the couch. His chest's a little tight but he can still mirror Don's smile. "Dad's out with Millie, I don't even know if he'll be back tonight." As he watches Don, swinging his arms as he walks into the living room, Charlie's earlier line of thought collapses into irrelevance. Don is happy, and Charlie did the right thing.

Don tosses himself carelessly onto the couch, cheerfully endangering Charlie's textbooks with his feet. "Good for him. Hey, I'm not interrupting you at work, am I?" Charlie glances away from his books; Don is still smiling, but his eyebrows are up, his eyes wide and questioning, his hand braced on the couch. If Charlie said a word, he'd get up and go.

Charlie aims for the inverse, not just because Don could be anywhere else if he wanted. "Oh, no, not really, no." He scoops the books up, shoving them under the table, setting the plate on top. "Just choosing a text for next term, I can do that anytime." While he's down there Charlie retrieves the remote. "There's probably a game on somewhere."

"That works." Don tips his head back. "Robin's got court tomorrow, so we had to call it an early night." He doesn't say more, but his smile is soft, his eyes half-closed, the ever-present worry lines missing from his forehead. Charlie pretends to be absorbed in channel-flipping so Don doesn't catch him looking.

Charlie's never been that good at pretending. Don's murmur of protest makes him sit up with a muttered "whoops, sorry" and click back to find the game he skimmed past, Flyers at New Jersey, second period. Don merely grunts approvingly, but right now that's enough. Charlie pushes away a stray thought of his hockey notebook and settles in to catch up with the game, with hanging out with his brother.

Then Don shifts, and when Charlie glances over he startles to see Don turning towards him, reaching for him. "I should tell you..." Don pats Charlie's shoulder, and Charlie smiles over the twinge of desire. It's a firm, brotherly pat, and Don is smiling at him, and he could lick the lipstick off Don's cheek but he _won't_.

Instead he shakes his head so Don doesn't have to say anything more, letting his smile widen as he looks up. "It's good to see you happy," Charlie says in all sincerity.

Don pats Charlie again, still smiling, but in the warmth of his eyes Charlie suddenly notices the growing darkness; Don's hand lingers, trailing down to curve around Charlie's bicep, and his other hand slides up behind Charlie's neck, underneath his hair. Charlie's pulse surges into that familiar free-fall acceleration, the shift between states, between values, and when Don tugs, Charlie opens his mouth, fails to say a word, and tips forward.

Don leans in to meet him, settling forehead to forehead, and Charlie sucks in a deep breath of relief over the gut-level disappointment, closing his eyes so he won't watch Don's mouth move. "I think it's going to work this time," Don says, "I think I've got her back," and Charlie nods and doesn't point out that he can feel Don's breath warm on his face, doesn't tilt his chin up to meet Don's lips. He blinks and sees Don's solid sleek legs, feels their knees pressed together, but he curls his hands in his lap and doesn't set them on Don's thighs.

Charlie sighs and inhales, faintly tasting Don's familiar warmth on his breath. Then he pushes back, letting gravity pull him back; Don's fingers dig in for just a heartbeat and then let go. Charlie bounces up and away, and Don's smile is half-faded, forgotten on his face as his eyes track Charlie. "I, uh, I thought I'd get a drink." Definitely not a beer, not now. "Some water, I think. Want some?"

Don shuts his eyes tightly and nods, dropping back onto the couch. "Sure, water sounds great." When he opens them again they're still dark, but the heat has gone out of them. Charlie hurries around the couch the long way, not actually running.

He's almost out of the room when Don's voice stops him short. "Charlie." Just his name, pitched low, and Charlie thinks desperately of what he knows rather than what he wants, of their Dad welcoming Robin back to the house, of Amita smiling at him tomorrow rather than Don behind him now. He has to grab the doorframe, leaning on it as his thighs tremble, the sound of Don breathing shivering straight through him; Don takes a deliberate, deeper breath, blows it out in a sigh, and his voice is even lower when he says softly, "Thank you."

Charlie's throat is so tight he can't imagine what he'd sound like if he tried to talk, and he can feel Don's gaze on the back of his neck, where the memory of Don's hand lingers. He simply nods, doesn't turn around, and pushes himself through the doorway.


End file.
